


Indulgence

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: Indulgence [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Death Wish, Fluff, Immortality, M/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Reckless Behavior, Suicidal Thoughts, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompts originally housed on tumblr. They are all Clint/Coulson, but each chapter has its own plot and they are not connected at all.</p>
<p>Due to rating and tagging issues, and out of a desire to give clear, proper warnings, this is now part one of a series. Future prompts will be posted as individual stories within that series. I hope this makes it easier for people to pick and choose what they want to read!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maisie

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who ever has or ever will prompt me! You guys give me great stuff!
> 
> Some small edits have been made from the original tumblr posts, just here and there. Nothing major.
> 
> **Warning:** Chapter 5, Come Back Again, deals with an immortal character who has suicidal thoughts and puts himself in harm's way. Please be aware of this in regards to your own self-care and well-being.
> 
> **Note:** After thinking about it, I don't like the format of posting separate prompt fics as chapters of one long work. Therefore this piece is now complete at eight chapters, and will be part one of a series instead. From here on out, each piece will be posted on its own as part of the [Indulgence](http://archiveofourown.org/series/89224) series. This will allow me to rate each piece on its merit, as well as give proper warnings and tags for each story.
> 
> I hope this makes it easier for you all, and thanks for your understanding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint visits an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For totalnerdatheart, who wanted C/C with animals

 

Clint approached the gate to the extremely large paddock with what looked like a mix of apprehension and great excitement. Phil knew he was hopeful, painfully so, and terrified that he would get his hopes dashed. His husband’s insecurities and belief that situations never worked out for him were mostly things of the past, but as their current activity was so deeply rooted in that past, Phil could see why they might choose to rear their ugly heads today.

Clint looked over his shoulder, waiting for Phil to catch up, his expression adorably childlike. Phil took the last few steps, and nudged Clint’s shoulder with his own. "Go on," he coaxed. "You won’t know until you try."

With a grin, Clint turned away from him, facing the cluster of animals gathered at the pond a few hundred yards away. He gave a complicated whistle, the sharp sound rising and falling in a signature, and immediately one of the large heads turned their way. The elephant swung away from the waterline, away from her companions, and walked with happy haste to their place at the gate, kicking up dust from the ground. The last few steps were almost a jog, and if Phil hadn’t noticed the complete and uncomplicated joy on his husband’s face, he might have been a little nervous.

"Hey, girl," Clint said, reaching to rub the proffered trunk, and Phil politely ignored the rough edge in his voice. "How’ve you been?"

The elephant — Maisie — ran her trunk over Clint’s face, then down his arm, clearly seeking.

"Yeah, yeah," he said as he held up the cantaloupe he’d brought. "Always were a greedy girl, weren’t ya?"

Maisie took the melon easily, and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. There was a delightful popping sound, some rind and juice and flesh escaping from her mouth as she chewed, and Phil looked on in wonder. Clint continued to talk to her as she ate, his voice low and soothing, his hands never leaving whatever bits of her skin he could reach.

"Maisie-girl, listen to me," he said eventually, taking one hand off her jaw to put it on Phil’s arm. "This is Phil. We love Phil. So you be nice and say hello, okay?"

And suddenly Phil found his own hand being touched by a snuffling, wriggling nose. He held his hand up, then slid it up the side of her trunk, and she moved the snout of it up his arm, exploring. He held very still while she sniffed at his shoulder, then his neck, and finally his hair. He huffed a small laugh and offered, "Hi, Maisie."

She whuffed at him, blowing God only knew what into his hair. Phil did not care.

"You want to go in?"

Clint turned wide eyes to the head vet, clearly surprised by the offer. "I thought they said I wasn’t gonna be allowed."

She shrugged. "She clearly knows you. And I can’t imagine you’ll do her any harm." It still took Clint a while, sometimes, to remember that people equated him with the Avengers, that they knew he was one of the heroes, and that that equaled expectations and knowledge that he was a good guy. A good _man_. 

"Then yes," he said in a rushed voice after he’d finished staring. "I mean, yes. Please."

So that was how Phil, who hadn’t seen an elephant since his last school field trip to a zoo, got to help feed one. How he got to pet one, rubbing behind her ears and along her trunk, just as Clint demonstrated. That was how he ended up with a powerful hose in his hands, spraying Maisie down, as well as two of her friends who came to join in the fun.

That was how he ended up with a new backdrop on his phone, of Maisie resting on her stomach, her forelegs stretched out in front of her, with Phil’s husband happily cradled between them, smiling like Phil had never seen him smile before.

 

_~fin~_


	2. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint starts to see Coulson in a new light. Or, at least, a new wardrobe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Anon, who wanted the first time Clint sees Phil undercover.

Clint had been with SHIELD for just under three years and, more specifically, he’d been assigned to Coulson for just over a year when it happened. He was on an undercover assignment, which most certainly wasn’t his specialty, but he was in position as a contracted assassin with a human trafficking ring, so he was basically playing an evil version of himself, and it wasn’t too hard to maintain his cover.

The problem was, however, that he couldn’t have regular contact with SHIELD. He’d get dropped messages every week, and sometimes those included instructions for a meet. Always with a time and a place, and a coded phrase to establish identity, but never with a name. Too risky.

This latest meet was set up at a mechanic’s shop, where Clint was to take his cover’s SUV with sluggish brakes (after he’d sabotaged them himself). It was a stiflingly hot day, and Clint’s standard cover-wear — tight black t-shirt and fitted jeans — was sticking to skin. He parked his car outside one of the bays, pulling at the fabric of his shirt and looking for a face that might be somewhat familiar.

What he saw, however, was a very sculpted ass, in very tight jeans, with its owner’s identity obscured as he leaned over an open hood, his face buried in engine guts. Clint decided not to immediately call attention to his presence and just enjoy the view, but the guy must have heard his car or something, because he called out, "Be right with you."

And, fuck, Clint knew that voice. It was muffled and held a little bit of a Southern twang he’d never heard in it before, but it was definitely Coulson. And what the hell? Since when had Clint’s handler been hiding that ass under those suits? "Uh. Take your time," he managed to grit out, and thankfully Coulson did, giving Clint a moment to collect himself.

By the time Coulson straightened and turned his way, Clint had managed to look away, which was a mistake, because when Coulson took a step towards him, wiping his hands on a rag, Clint’s eyes were drawn back to him. And he absolutely was not prepared for the tight tank top Coulson wore, streaks of grease marring his arms and neck and temple. It was dirty and messy and not at all Coulson, and Clint was entranced.

"How can I help you, Mr . . ." 

Clint’s eyes snapped back up to the older man’s face and, Jesus, that twinkle in his gaze was totally un-Coulson-like too. Except for the fact that it was all too knowing, which was exactly like Coulson. Clint cleared his throat and stepped forward, offering a hand. "Hinton," he supplied. "Brent. My brakes seem to be misbehaving."

Coulson quirked an eyebrow with a friendly, if professional, smile, and shook Clint’s hand. "Misbehaving how?"

"They’re a little slow. And I use the car for work, so, you know. Can’t have that." Especially not in Clint’s cover profession.

Coulson nodded, confirming that the identification code was complete, and together they determined that Coulson would take a quick look, and come to the office’s waiting area with an estimate for Brent. A bead of sweat ran a slow path down Coulson’s throat, and Clint had never wanted to lick anything more.

He turned and went to the office instead, and ended up leaving a couple hours later with an invoice that held an encrypted message, as well as a whole new view on his normally buttoned-up handler.

 

***

 

It wasn’t fucking fair. It had been a month since Clint had last had any contact with Coulson, and that had certainly been an eye-opening experience. And now here the man was again, as a guest at the black tie fundraiser where Brent had a target.

And damn the man looked fine. A close-cut, well-tailored tuxedo hugged his frame, and the elegant bow tie accentuated his strong jaw. Clint had the sudden memory of that drop of sweat, and it was like a punch to the gut. He had to turn away to order a drink, making sure to keep the want out of his eyes. It wouldn’t do to get caught ogling the man, either by his so-called employer or by the man himself.

When Clint looked back, Coulson was murmuring something in his companion’s ear. She was a beautiful woman, dressed in a striking red gown, and when she laughed, every male eye within earshot turned her way. Clint recognized her, one of Coulson’s baby agents, and she carried herself well as Coulson introduced her to a group of debutantes and then left her there to make his way to the bar.

Clint turned casually, picking up his drink to cover the movement of his lips. "Looking good, sir."

Coulson’s lips twitched. "Wardrobe did well. Especially with Su’s dress. As long as she’s on my arm, no one’s looking at me."

Clint swallowed away all the responses that wanted to push their way out of his mouth.

  
 _Are you sure, sir?_

_More fools they, then._

_Well,_ I’m _looking._

 

"I don’t know. I mean, it’s no tight fitting mechanic’s outfit, but . . ."

Coulson took a sip of his drink, not looking at Clint, but the twinkle was back in his eyes. "Your equipment’s been found by my team. Your shells have been replaced with the tranqs, and we’ll make sure to collect the ‘body’ before Jollenbeck’s people can get to her. Whatever happens, you’re clear to take the shot, understand?"

Clint nodded, Coulson slipped some bills into the tip container, and then he was gone, moving smoothly through the crowd to regain Su’s hand on his arm.

Clint refused to feel jealous. Agent Su was just doing her job, helping Coulson maintain his cover. And Clint had his own work to get to. He lingered for a bit, making small talk with a few of the guests, just enough to not be remarkable, and eventually he made his way across the ballroom, heading for the exit.

And if the sight of Coulson and Su dancing made his steps falter for just a moment, well, no one seemed to notice except Coulson.

Yeah. He was fucked.

 

_~fin~_


	3. Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sleeping habits of Clint Barton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For lapillus, who wanted Clint/Coulson sleep cuddling

Phil was well acquainted with Barton’s sleeping habits. He slept a maximum of six hours if he could get it, liked to have a gun and a knife handy, and a bottle of water by the bedside, still sealed. If he was home, or somewhere he felt safe, he sprawled out, sleeping on his stomach, a giant starfish in the middle of the bed. (And watching that happen on a military grade cot was always hilarious.) If he was on a mission, or feeling endangered, he slept on his side, with a clear line of sight to the door if they were on an upper level, to the window if they were on the ground floor. He only snored when he was coming down with a cold, and when he was exhausted and truly relaxing for the first time in a long time, he drooled.

Phil had only actually shared a sleeping space with Barton a handful of times, because sleeping in shifts while on a mission just made sense. But the few times it had happened (usually when Natasha was there to take a shift), they’d kept to their sides of the bed, each at the edge of the mattress, both facing the room’s entrance point. (And Phil was eternally grateful for that, because he’d been told by several of his former partners — well into their relationships — that he’d suddenly become a tactile sleeper. He understood that it started when he began to feel safe with them, and he was terrified of what that could translate to with Barton in the bed.)

So when he woke up with an arm around his waist, heavy but warm and somehow comforting, he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. He kept his breathing slow and even, kept his eyes closed, and tried to shuffle through his memories.

_Rio. Mission. Clint and Natasha. Sex traffic outfit with ties to AIM. Safe house. Awaiting extraction. One room, one bed._

_Clint._

Without thinking, he brought his own hand up, lightly gripping Clint’s forearm. He should not be enjoying the situation nearly as much as he was. Also, shit, Natasha was sure to be in the room.

He slowly let go of Barton’s wrist, and cracked his eyes open just enough to see Natasha sitting at the table with a book and a cup of tea, her gun resting by her hand and pointing straight at the door. She, however, was looking right at him, with a sly smirk on her lips and a knowing gleam in her eyes.

Clint made an unintelligible noise behind him, and withdrew his arm. Phil closed his eyes so as not to see Natasha’s expression, and tried not to feel disappointed.

 

 

***

 

 

Two missions later, it happened again. And another time three missions after _that_. It kept happening, over and over, for nearly eighteen months. Sometimes Phil would wake first, and carefully extract himself from Barton’s grip, and sometimes Clint would leave the bed first, leaving Phil to wonder if he’d only dreamed of comfort and warmth, of a solid presence surrounding him.

Phil honestly didn’t know what to make of it.

 

 

***

 

 

And then when Barton showed up at Phil’s apartment, looking for a place to stay for just one night? Well. That was something new all together.

Because when Phil finally closed the files he’d been working on and shut down his laptop, when he’d finally given in to the late hour and admitted that he needed to sleep, Barton was already in his bed. Face down, spread out, sleeping like he was safe and comfortable. Like he was completely relaxed. At home. In Phil’s bed.

"Shit," Phil muttered, because, really. How was he supposed to cope with that?

He got ready for bed, keeping his movements small and quiet, and when he finally lifted the covers, he shoved at Barton with one hand. “Move over,” he commanded, careful not to let affection leak into his tone. “You’re taking up the whole mattress.”

Barton grumbled some, but he did shift, even if it was only a couple inches.

Phil tucked himself into the available space, and closed his eyes.

At some point, he became aware enough to realize that he had rolled onto his other side, closer to Clint, and had tucked his leg over Clint’s own sprawled limb, and his face along the side of Clint’s (well-muscled) arm.

He was not, however, aware enough to recognize that he should move, so he didn’t.

 

 

***

 

 

He woke up to the sound of his front door closing. They never spoke of it again.

 

 

***

 

 

“Come on, sir,” Clint said, his arms out and lips quirked in what Phil was pretty sure was supposed to be a wicked smile, but leaked hints of uncertainty. “Shall we give in to the inevitable?”

Phil tossed the washcloth through the open door to the bathroom, and climbed back in bed. He took Clint’s invitation readily, and slid into his arms, ducking his head to the man’s neck and laying a small kiss there, tasting salt and musk and home.

 

_~fin~_


	4. Sex, Wilson, and the Absence of Rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has seen way too many movies, but in this situation? There's only one he wants to recreate with Phil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Allochthon, who wanted Clint/Coulson, stranded on a desert island
> 
> One of _the_ most iconic romance scenes of classic cinema. If you don't know it: [ From Here to Eternity](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iTCDWQXYlY).

 

 

"Barton, no. I’m not acting out ‘From Here to Eternity’ with you."

"Aw, come on, sir. Just a little?"

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose and looked around. The beach they were on was vast and empty, though the jungle started a few hundred yards away from the shoreline. They’d already explored as best they’d dared, and it was pretty clear the island was one of the many small, uninhabited members of the local archipelago. He wasn’t particularly worried; they had their trackers, and he was sure someone would be along to collect them as soon as they could.

"It’d be better than playing ‘Cast Away,’ at least," Clint continued. "I don’t care how long it’s been, I’m not screaming after some dumb volleyball."

"I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean,’" Phil said, bringing his head up and evaluating the trees at the edge of the jungle. Their trackers were designed to withstand salt water, but it never hurt to give the search parties another clue.

"There’s rum?" Clint asked hopefully.

"It’s gone," Phil quipped in return. "So we’ll have to find another accelerant for the bonfire."

Clint grumbled for a bit, unhappy about the amount of work building a large fire would entail. But then he looked back to Phil with bright, hopeful eyes. "And _then_  ‘From Here To Eternity?’"

Phil allowed himself an indulgent smile. "We’ll see."

 

_~fin~_


	5. Come Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has lived many lives. This current one is one of the worst, until it suddenly isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Contains suicidal thoughts and the reckless actions of someone who doesn’t care if he lives or dies. He is, however, immortal, so at least it wouldn’t be permanent. But please be aware of this content in regards to your own well-being.
> 
> For Anon, who asked for Immortal Clint

The thing of it was, Clint had never expected to live this long. Not this time. He’d been reckless since he was a child, secure in the knowledge that if he died, he’d just come back again. And as horrific as the actual death itself could be, he’d kind of been hoping for it. This lifetime _sucked_ , and while he hadn’t been actively suicidal, he had thought about what the next go around might hold for him. It had to be better than what he’d been dealt this time, right?

So he’d let the Swordsman hurl knives at him, and he’d practiced daredevil stunts that could kill him, and sometimes when he’d goofed around on the trapeze or the tightrope, he hadn’t bothered checking the rigging or the safety net. And then it just got even shittier. Betrayed and left behind, hunger and exposure to the elements became common issues. Sometimes the only thing stopping him from actually going through with shooting himself rather than someone else was the fact that he didn’t know for sure if that was something he’d come back from. He didn’t believe in Hell, not in the conventional, Christian sense of the word, but he wasn’t sure if whatever loophole he found himself in would support someone who had actually taken himself out of the game.

And then he’d started helping people. At first it had been on his own, just stopping the occasional rape or robbery attempt. Then he’d become more choosy about the contracts he’d taken. Drug runners and human traffickers and pedophiles. When he’d accidentally wiped out an entire HYDRA cell all by his little lonesome, well, that’s when things started to get interesting.

That’s when SHIELD came a-calling and, along with them, Phil Coulson.

Clint had been slow to trust, and he definitely hadn’t lost his recklessness. It had been easier, even, because he’d had a _reason_. His cavalier attitude towards his own safety was in service of other people. The job needed doing, and fuck all if he wasn’t going to get it done.

But then Coulson had yelled at him (which hadn’t, in point of fact, been anything new; Coulson always yelled at him when he took risks), and Coulson had kissed him, and _that_? That had been new enough to shock Clint into behaving. Into wanting to stick around, and maybe seeing what could be made of this life after all.

So Clint had started paying attention in briefings, and he’d begun to care about extraction plans. He’d started trying to get home, to return to Phil, and then, later, to Natasha as well. He’d let people back him up, watch his tail, and he’d _always_ managed to stay alive, driven by the thought of just one more night, or — if he was lucky — a whole future of nights. Nights and days and years and years of Phil, of love, of family.

Until Phil didn’t return the favor. Until Phil didn’t come home.

So now Clint threw himself off buildings. Now he stood next to gods and superheroes, and went toe to toe with aliens and robots and so-called supervillians. Now he didn’t care if nobody caught him, or if the line on his grappling arrow snapped. If one of the bad guys captured him and killed him, maybe the distance of another life, a fresh start, would diminish the ache.

But somebody always caught him, and the line always held. If he was taken, his team found him. He couldn’t catch a fucking break.

Natasha called him on it. His team called him on it. Psych called him on it. Clint couldn’t have cared less.

Until the day when Phil returned, and _Phil_ called him on it.

He still threw himself off buildings from time to time, but at least now he called for Thor or Tony first. Now, he checked his equipment regularly, looking for wear in the cables and weaknesses in the harness on his tac vest. Now he went in with a plan to get out, and he fought like hell to see that plan through.

He was going to live this life, goddamn it. He was going to live it as long as he was able. Because it was the best damn life he’d ever had.

 

_~fin~_


	6. Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of an arctic winter, an unlikely ally comes to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For totalnerdatheart, who asked for C/C with foxes.

“Cold, sir.”

“I know, Clint.” Phil kept his arms around his agent, hoping against hope that it would be enough. They’d lost their tent to collapse of the ice shelf, and Clint had almost gone with it, feet and calves getting dunked in the freezing water. Rubbing his calves and ankles along Clint’s legs, Phil knew it wasn’t going to do much good.

Clint’s teeth were chattering, which Phil actually took as a good sign. It would be when Clint’s teeth _stopped_ knocking together, when his body didn’t even have the energy to feel the cold, that’s when he would really start to panic. They weren’t there yet, however, and Phil just held on and continued to try to raise someone on the comms.

There was nothing though, just Barton’s teeth and the occasional mumble, and the ever present hush of the arctic winter. Phil was holding on with everything he had to stay awake, to keep them alive, even as he could feel Clint growing slack against him.

Eventually he heard a noise. Soft and steady, and pretty fucking close. He turned his head, only to be confronted by the eyes of a visitor. The fox’s fur was so dazzling white it was hard to make out, even at this close range. But it came closer, pausing only when it was only just out of reach. 

Phil put his hand on his gun. Foxes were carnivores, and though it was unlikely the comparatively small creature would try for such a kill, he wasn’t risking anything. But the fox merely regarded them for a while, then took a step forward. When Phil didn’t react, it came closer.

Slowly, and with several dancing side-steps, the animal approached, head bobbing and ears twitching. It stopped near Clint’s feet, put its nose down, and sneezed. Phil was tempted to say something, but didn’t want to scare it off. He wasn’t alone, he had Clint, but with just the two of them in the white expanse, it was awfully lonely.

The fox turned then, around and around, and then lay down along Clint’s calves, its head delicately resting on them, and its tail deliberately covering Clint’s feet. Phil stared for a long moment, wondering if the bitter chill was causing him to hallucinate. But no matter how many times he blinked, the fox was still there, pale and warm.

Phil looked away eventually, and stopped talking to the non-existent people in his ear. He’d rather have the fox, at this moment, especially when Clint shifted a little and hummed. Phil held his breath, but the creature simply raised its head until Clint had settled, then put it back down, its tail twitching and fluffing along Clint’s ankles.

For hours they stayed like that. Until the noise of an approaching chopper filled the air. The fox looked up at first, then stood, and finally bolted. Phil watched it go, grateful and a little sad, then turned to watch the sky with relief.

_~fin~_


	7. Adornment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint likes jewelry. Tony likes to give him shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was not a prompt, but I was inspired by a tumblr post, so I am including it here. The pic set that started it all can be found [here](http://snooziep.tumblr.com/post/77479484016/four-his-jewellery). Thanks, snooziep, for the inspiration!

“Where’s all your adornment, Barton?” Clint loves his man jewelry, and Tony loves to tease him about it. In truth, the guy does have decent taste, even if he doesn’t seem to follow that rule about taking one thing off before leaving the house. Pepper loves that rule, lives by that rule. Tony has caught her literally following that rule, leaving one accessory on a table or counter, or even in the car.

But Barton loves his silver rings, his leather wrist wraps, his punk watches. He has necklaces and charms he wears in pairs and groups of three, he has beads and baubles and chains, he even has some handmade woven bracelets from fans. Anytime he thinks he can get away with it, whenever he’s fairly certain they won’t be called to action and he’s required to dress up a little, he wears at least six pieces of jewelry. _At least_. It’s usually at an event, like the annual Stark Industries gala, or Tony’s personal New Year’s party. That one time Coulson made him attend the super secret spy fundraiser. (Tony still isn’t sure how funds are raised when no one is supposed to know why they’re there or who’s hosting. But apparently it’s a yearly thing, so it must work somehow.) At Hill’s wedding, and when they’d managed to attend Coulson’s reunion thing. (Clint actually _had_ been called to work then, but it wasn’t as if he could have _planned_ for Coulson’s old sergeant to have had some kind of mental implant, and for that implant to make him go on a rampage when it short-circuited.) So to see Clint now, all dressed up in a suit (no tie, shirt casually unbuttoned at the top) but sans silver is just fucking weird. 

“Seriously. No bracelets or necklaces, even?”

But Barton just shakes his head, slaps Natasha’s hand away as she tugs on the hem of his jacket, and takes a breath. “Text Pepper,” he says. “Ask her if it’s time.”

Tony obeys, though he bitches about it as he does so. “See, this is why you should at least be wearing a watch. I am not your message service, Katniss. I am not Western Union. I have better things to do than— Oh. Pepper says to come on down.”

Clint laughs, a little high and manic. “Clint Barton, come on down!”

“Yeah,” Tony adds. “I’m not Bob Barker either.”

“You ready?” Natasha asks, ignoring the both of them in favor of the mission objective.

Clint nods and squares his shoulders before moving to the door. Tony would think that the man was marching to his doom but for the smile he gets as they board the elevator. He’s not meeting his fate (or maybe he is, to the romantically inclined. Tony is not one of those people), he’s just meeting Coulson. Coulson and their friends and teammates.

And a justice of the peace. Can’t forget that.

Tony looks at Barton’s left hand, at the bare fingers, and absolutely does not smile.

 

_~fin~_


	8. Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil meets Lucky. Pizza Dog knows why New Guy smells familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For nerdwegian, who wanted a Hawkguy/MCU mash-up, with Phil meeting Lucky or Kate. I went with Lucky.

Phil looked the building over with a practiced eye. It might not have been in the best of neighborhoods, and it might have looked a little worn in, but he could see that the windows were all secure (double-pane, thick safety glass), the fire escape was in good condition (and completely inaccessible from the ground), and the lock on the main door appeared to be new. Phil knew enough about Clint to know that none of those security measures had been put in place for himself, but rather for his tenants. It was heartwarming and frustrating all at the same time, because as much as he admired that Clint was looking out for the people he considered himself responsible for (as he always did), Phil also wanted the man to start looking out for _himself_. Clint had a habit of attracting trouble, and Phil hated that he wasn’t around as much anymore to help get him back out of it again.

Taking his sunglasses off, Phil finally crossed the street to enter the building he had been scrutinizing. As soon as he stepped onto the curb on the other side, the dog that had been loitering by the door trotted over to sniff at his shoes. Phil held still, not willing to accidentally kick the poor thing in the face — the dog had only one eye, a stiff leg, and had obviously been mistreated at some point in his life. And Phil . . . Well. He always had had a soft spot for strays with history.

So he held out a hand, slowly so as not to spook. The dog — a mutt of some kind, though Phil would put money on at least a bit of Retriever being in the mix — sniffed his hand cautiously, then wagged his tail, his tongue hanging joyously out of his mouth. Phil smiled and patted his head (careful of his suit), then moved past him, pulling open the heavy door with ease.

The dog trotted past him into the building, and Phil looked after him, amused. He ended up following the dog up the stairs, unable to shake the feeling that he was being led. Which was stupid. He knew Clint’s apartment was on the top floor (he’d have expected nothing else of the archer), and he was well aware of the building’s layout, thanks to SHIELD’s files. He knew where he was going. What he didn’t know was where the _dog_ was going, and yet they moved together, as if with a shared purpose.

And, sure enough, they reached the top floor. The dog trotted ahead, and scratched at the very door Phil himself had been aiming for. Amused and intrigued, Phil just waited, wanting to see if Clint would respond to the animal’s request for entry. It took less than a minute for the door to open, but Clint was looking right at Phil with a smile as the dog slipped inside.

“Were you expecting me?”

“Boss, you were standing across the street for a good thirty-three seconds. Of course I saw you.”

“Of course,” Phil agreed good-naturedly as Clint swung the door open wider with a gesture to come in. He looked around the apartment as he stepped inside, assessing escape routes and weapons, and then just taking in the decor. It wasn’t exactly homey, maybe, but it was very Clint. And, really, that was good enough for Phil.

“So,” Clint said, heading for the kitchen and fiddling with the coffee machine. “What’s up? It’s not often I get handler house calls.”

Phil shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. This isn’t business. My team’s on leave here in the city for a few days, but Jasper’s in Singapore, Maria’s heading to South Africa, and Fury’s supremely busy. I find myself . . . at loose ends.”

“Aw, shit, sir. You lonely?”

Again, he shrugged, trying to play of the fact that yes, as a matter of fact he was. “Just don’t know what to do with myself. Thought maybe you’d have some ideas.”

Clint turned around finally, the old KitchenAid appliance chugging along, doing its job. There was a wicked gleam in Clint’s eyes as he stepped forward, and Phil let him grab his tie and pull him closer, both of them smiling now. “Since when do you need help coming up with ideas?”

“Since when do you have a dog?” Phil asked in return, feeling cheeky.

“Uh. I may have forgotten to mention? Anyway, he kind of belongs to the whole building.”

“But he lives here,” Phil said, not framing it as a question, because the dog in question was heading back into the room, with what looked like a t-shirt in his mouth.

“Yeah, mostly. Except when I’m out of town.”

Phil looked down as the mutt sat down at their feet, tail thumping and an expectant tilt to his head. “Does he want— Wait. Is that mine?” Reaching down, Phil tugged on the material until it was released. Sure enough, it was his old Rangers shirt, the one he used to sleep in. “I wondered where this had gone.”

Clint had the grace to look sheepish. “I, uh . . . You were dead! You weren’t gonna miss it!”

And just like that, Phil finally understood. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who missed someone while he was away. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had feelings buried and hidden beneath sexual interest. It was entirely possible Clint wanted something more than the occasional strings-free arrangement they’d been enjoying for the past year (which, with their schedules, basically amounted to four separate trysts of varying lengths).

Phil looked down to the shirt in his hands, then at the dog. “Good boy,” he offered, and got more tail-thumping with increased vigor. Then he held that shirt in one hand, fisted his other hand in Clint’s shirt, and hauled him in close. “I was lonely,” he admitted with his lips a hair’s-breadth from Clint’s. “But I think that’s done now.”

Clint looked torn between rolling his eyes and leaning in to close the distance between them. So Phil decided for him. He felt a tug as the dog asked for the Rangers shirt back, and Phil let it go. Kissing Clint was much more important.

 

_~fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> Click on the series for more ficlets inspired by prompts on tumblr!


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